


and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime

by KrasotaBella



Category: Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games)
Genre: Blood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentions of Violence, This is SUPER FUN to write I love the spookiness of Roots, Title from White Winter Hymnal 🥰, Trick or Treat 2020, VERY VERY vaguely though but it’s a canon one, Wrote this for Trick Or Treat 2020! I hope u like it Andian!!!! <3, still thought I’d tag it anyway, time-skipping, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrasotaBella/pseuds/KrasotaBella
Summary: My gift for AO3’s Trick Or Treat 2020! My person requested a Trick (something spooky) about the og Vanderboom children exploring! So I thought I’d make it into a spooky lil minific/partial character analysisEnjoy <3
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Andian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andian/gifts).



It is late November, and the oncoming winter bites harshly at the crude remains of autumn. The wind whistles sharply, sending leaves and shrubbery tumbling in the air. Three children—triplets—are playing in the clearing behind an old manor, nestled within a thick grove of pines. A frozen river stretches to their left, winding north until it spills into a glorious lake. 

The tallest of them, a boy with dark hair, bounces a birdie on a racquetball paddle. His name is Samuel. By his side, wielding her own racquet, is a young girl adorned in ribbons. Her name is Emma. And trailing behind, pulling his large winter coat tightly around him, is the third child. His head is wrapped in heavy-duty gauze, covering half of his face. It is a distressing sight to see on a boy so young, but he seems to be making due with it. This is Albert. 

The other two are much gentler with him now, since the incident. Even though bleeding has slowed, the port-wine stain has scarred its way outwards, curling over his face. Nowadays, Albert is quieter. He is only eleven, the same as his siblings, but there is an acute dullness in his eyes. But despite everything, he forgives. He does not forget. 

Samuel understands this, feels the tension seeping off of his brother. Something about the bandages gives him a deep sense of unease, and he tries to avoid looking at them for too long. 

But darling little Emma never stops smiling. She calls him ‘Bertie’, and brushes his tufts of straw blonde hair, and he lets her. When they play outside and tread through the deep snow, she’ll tug at his jacket sleeve, and he lets her stand on his feet and holds her hands as they walk in tandem through the frost. It is a wordless interaction, but benevolent none-the-less. 

It’s like this that the children creep closer to the treeline, teasing and poking fun at each other, until each stops right before the threshold into the woods.

_ There’s nothing to be scared of. They’re only trees, after all.  _ Albert assures the others. Emma is easily convinced, but young Samuel gives his brother an estranged look. Nevertheless, they march on, two of them bouncing the birdie back and forth between them. 

They giggle as it ricochets off of trees, whizzing by their heads like a hummingbird. Samuel barely manages to hit it before it collides with the ground, and the plastic ball flies outwards, getting lost in the thicket. Immediately, the three move after it, digging through the heavy brushel and snow-dusted roots. 

It looks to have landed in a tiny clearing, and as Samuel steps out of the bushes to reach for it, he freezes.

There is a man standing there.

No, not quite a man—his general figure is unremarkable, as he is dressed well for the frozen weather, but there is something  _ wrong.  _ In the place that his head should be, a crow’s head sits, beady black eyes staring at the children with an unmatched intensity. 

And for a second, young Samuel finds himself so stricken with fear he can barely move. Words betray him as he slowly steps backwards, willing his body to run.

But then Alberts steps up, watching the figure in the distance. He is not afraid—he simply watches it with a distant surprise. As if greeting an old friend. The interaction sends chills up the boy’s spine. 

The crow tips his head to him, and when Albert turns back, he looks Samuel in the eyes, and the emptiness there makes him feel he’s burning alive, despite the winter around him. 

And so Samuel turns, grabs his sister, and runs, sprinting blindly to the place where they came.

They never go back into those woods. 

—

It is summer, now, many years later. Albert stands on the porch of the manor, gazing out on the picturesque early morning. The deer skull mask is pushed up on his forehead, revealing the maroon birthmark on the side of his face. He doesn’t seem to notice the blood splattered on his face, gaze locked on a solitary tree in the distance. A small flower garden has been planted at its roots. Upon close inspection, there are tattered remains of rope wrapped around the thickest branch. But nothing more. 

He’s mourning, he realizes vaguely. Mourning. 

That’s new.

Albert takes a breath, surveying the scene one last time, then picks up two jars—the eyes of two lovers—and descends into his great uncle’s cellar.


End file.
